Game of Thrones Season 3, Episode 2

Theon's reekification

Theon, you're back! So soon? Thought you had somewhere (hell) to be for two more seasons? Did your agent negotiate Season 3 into your GOT contact?

I didn't mind one bit. In fact, everything about Sunday's episode was pretty good! All the Stark children made new friends, which is exactly what they needed. The Brothers without Banners are perfectly cast and exactly how I remember them from the books! Who wouldn't want to accompany a scruffy group of vigilantes to vent about the war over brown bread and soup? The best way to get our gang moving is by shooting an arrow directly at Hotpie (sorry, Hotpie). Smart move on the writers to introduce characters that will turn things around for our heroine, Arya. Also, The Hound is back! And he outed Arya! That bastard. 

It's wonderful to see Bran hanging out with kids his own age. They have so much in common, like warging and dream-swapping. Also, does anyone else think that Jojen Reed looks a lot like Tate from American Horror Story? Someone in TV land should capitalize on this.

Brothers 

Back in King's Landing, Tyrion and Shae shared a pretty touching scene regarding his not-so-discreet feelings toward her. Please don't kill Shae, Tywin!  Joffrey is smack talking to his mum again and it's so not cool. How long is Cersei gonna put up with that crap? We'll find out soon enough. 

Also, the Queen of Thorns! What a boss. Admittedly, the Tyrell's are probably my least favorite house. All the Tyrell's come off as so pandering, ineffective, and conniving. But that's the point, isn't it? At least Lady Olenna tells it like it is. Should Sansa trust her? If the series has taught us anything, it's to trust no one.

Speaking of the Tyrell's, I have a bone to pick with the casting of Ser Loras. He's a freaking Knight! Would a Knight have these arms?

Not a Knight.

Finally, Jaime Lannister manages to outwit Brienne and instigates a sword fight on a bridge, not the smartest thing to do when there's a bounty out on your head. 

Alas, they are captured. Good job, dude. Overly zealous of him? Definitely. Maybe Jamie will learn an important lesson about arrogance. I hope the next episode will follow suit of the books and bring about a shocking and disturbing turn of events for Jaime.

If you're like me, you can't wait till Sunday. Breaking Bad Season 5 (again) will just have to occupy my TV schedule until then....

Take Shelter

Take Shelter (2011)

Director: Jeff Nichols

Cast: Michael Shannon, Jessica Chastain, Shea Whigham, Kathy Baker

Jeff Nichols's Take Shelter takes place in rural Ohio, and this is one of the first films I can recall that doesn't use a Midwestern milieu to cast a dour, pedantic commentary on an underrepresented population of the U.S. Instead, the film's setting sets an opposite example. Michael Shannon's family-man/construction worker Curtis lives an idyllic life consisting of a spacious home (for us New Yorkers anyway), a strong relationship with his co-workers, including BFF Dewart (Shea Whigham), and an abundance of plans for the future alongside supportive wife Samantha (Jessica Chastain). This pristine and virtuous life is precisely what makes Curtis's crumbling mental state and subsequent actions so tragic to witness.

The film opens with the first of several dream sequences, one in which Curtis, seemingly partaking in a normal routine, looks to the sky as an ominous presence looms close, and oil begins to rain from the sky. More dream sequences follow-- the family dog attacks Curtis, apocalyptic storm clouds hover above-- all of which point toward an ominous (literal) storm of catastrophic proportions. 

The film interchanges between dreams and reality without warning, having the tangible effect of allowing the viewer to experience them as Curtis does. Namely, the effect is that of being shuffled between the dreaming world and reality so suddenly, it becomes difficult to function in the latter without the former's effect casting a shadow.  As the film progresses, Curtis's supremely upsetting dreams become nightmares, and as his nightmares get worse, they begin to seep into his reality in the form of delusions, hearing thunder roll in the sky without cloud in sight. Predictably,  he soon finds it impossible to hide his waning sanity from his family and friends. 

All these evenly paced situations would remain fascinating even if the central character was a crudely drawn "every-man" to whom external events just happen. However, Curtis is more nuanced than the script requires; he approaches his predicament with fortitude and resolves to tackle the problem any way he can, even confiding in a counselor and visiting his Schizophrenic mother in a mental hospital for insight (a brief albeit memorable role played by Kathy Baker). His determination keeps us invested.  Likewise, his wife reacts understandably to his unfortunate affliction, often venting her frustration, but untypically supports him throughout, even playing the role of Father to Curtis' Prodigal Son, immediately embracing and forgiving him after a particularly traumatic outburst of psychosis at a community event.

After seeking help and being prescribed sedatives, Curtis transitions into a sort of fugue state of tranquility, and becomes determined to construct an elaborate storm shelter. It's as if the medication had an ironic, debilitating effect by shutting off his recognition of his psychosis, thus rendering him powerless against his illness.

The film functions on two levels. On one level, it's a fantastic drama of how mental illness destroys lives, how the sufferer transitions through the shameful stages of covering it up, willing it away, accepting it, seeking help, and finally (unfortunately) giving in.  In turn, Nichols wonderfully illuminates the isolation, fear, and anger over the injustice of such impermeable forces, and one's inability to exercise control over his or her mind. On another, dramatically different level, the movie functions as a quasi horror film by subtly hinting that these forces derive from some unseen source not limited to physiological dysfunction of the mind, but of an other worldliness. This second level is fleshed out in the final act of the film, as a real storm comes to town and Curtis's shelter becomes a perfectly calculated metaphor for our inability to shield ourselves from these forces.

My favorite scene from Take Shelter is when Curtis finally admits to his wife that he has been suffering from dementia. Shannon and Chastain's beautiful performances notwithstanding (Shannon clinches his jaw and evokes apology through his eyes as he struggles to come clean to his partner), Curtis explains away all ambiguity of the film's structure with the line, "it's about the feeling" when describing the palpable impact of his dreams.  In the film's most mesmerizing scenes, Curtis's "feelings", which were brilliantly displayed in the visuals of his dream sequences, are reincarnated in his waking life. 

The final apocalyptic scene through Chastain's perspective is literally impossible on earth and defies all logic. Could this be a metaphor of her understanding her husband's condition? Highly unlikely. Thus, the only ambiguous element remaining after the final frame is whether Curtis is still dreaming and will in fact never be able to escape his nightmares, or whether he will continue to fight against them.

A

Game of Thrones: Season 3, Episode 1

Not symbolic at all.

Over the next few months the internet will be buzzing with hundreds or even thousands of posts and articles on the third season of Game of Thrones. Some of these recaps will provide predictions for the rest of the season, while others will analyze the series in a post-modern light, offering socio-historical analysis on the many relationships and political structures of the show, and it will be very boring. It seems natural that I should partake in such activities if for no other reason than the fact that after watching the first season, I became so obsessed with Martin's epic that I spent the rest of the spring and summer reading all four books in succession, after which I eagerly anticipated the fifth book and second season and now the third season and soon the sixth book and so on.

Where to begin? I adored the first season and watched every episode probably about three times. My favorite features of that season are the characterizations, the clever ties that link all the characters together, and how the narrative constantly operates for what is best for the series, not what the audience wants, like the killing of Ned Stark. When I first saw Ned on that stage, I knew that he would lie to everyone about not being a traitor in order to protect his family, and I also knew and immediately predicted that Joffrey was going to execute him anyway because it would be the most sensible and tragic plot twist, one leading to war. In that final scene, Ned betrays his honor for the first and last time, by lying in claiming that he tried to usurp the throne. He does this for his family, but by betraying his honor for family, he paid the ultimate price. This scene also functions to ensure that the viewer does not expect who will live in die from then on, a constant threat throughout both the books and series (and of utmost importance in Season 3. Hint: everyone dies). The moment in the show when the execution sword came down, I was so upset I threw a book at the wall. 

The first season also features fantastic build ups and foreshadowing to war. Ned Stark watches from the doorway as Arya takes sword-fighting classes, his countenance growing worried as a training maneuver imitates rendering her dead; Tywin Lannister graphically skins a deer while revealing to Jaime Lannister his disapproval for his position as he insists Jaime act accordingly to uphold the family name; Catelyn Stark and Robb display genuine grief and vengeance ("Then we will kill them all") after learning of Ned's death. When you watch the first season again, you pick up on subtle and almost completely cryptic maneuvering on behalf of Varys and Petyr Baelish, who present themselves as the most knowledgeable characters with several cards up their sleeves. 

After Season 1 ended, I  picked up the second book because I couldn't wait to find out what happens to all our old friends. You can imagine how excited I was for the second season after reading the second book. Unfortunately, my expectations were too high, and I ended up despising the second season. Many parts that I found important and/or entertaining were rushed in that season, including one of my favorite parts from the book, a more lengthy scene Arya where frees Jaqen H'ghar and the two other prisoners while hearing the screaming of burning animals in a barn, after which her, Gendry, and Hotpie embark on a trek to Harrenhal. Entire scenes featuring Roose Bolton are gone, as well, and is Daenerys' disorienting trip outwitting warlocks in the House of the Undying. Much of the second book is cut from the series and yet I didn't find that the show made up for what was lost with more revealing character developments or incredible shots; instead Season 2 included useless sex scenes (Renly, Ser Loras, and Margaery) and an excruciatingly boring romance between Robb Stark and a nurse Lady who has no purpose being there (although we all know the consequences of their stupid affair). The Battle of Blackwater episode was the best part of the season, but rushed, and Tyrion's injury is not nearly as scarring (literally and figuratively) as it is in the book. To make everything worse, the production value seemed to be lacking.

I was so angry with the second season I almost forgot the show all together. However, I watched the entire season last week and appreciated it more after a second viewing. All of the Stannis's scenes are imaginative and interesting, and I love the Red Woman and Davos. The often-suspenseful conversations between Arya and Tywin set up both characters as central aggressors on opposite sides of the war. North of the Wall, Q'horan Halfhand and Ygritte are both perfectly cast. 

But onto Season 3...

I didn't expect to love last night's episode as much as I did. Mance Rayder is probably one of the best characters in the entire series. Daenarys' grown-up dragons and Astapor are better than I imagined, and the entire Unsullied scene was incredible and spot-on from the book. Davos' rescue and conversation with Salladhor Saan brought new light to Stannis' rise, despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles. I love Davos! Tyrion and Tywin's confrontation and brilliant dialogue set the stage for all subsequent encounters and their ongoing father/son rivalry. Lastly, Sansa's secretive relationship with Littlefinger's is sure to elude us until the very end. 

My only beef with last night's episode is with Margaery Tyrell, who is supposed to be genuinely good in the book but comes off as conniving and manipulative in the series. I'm already tired of Cersei's jealousy, but I can't wait to see what Jaime is up to. Oh, I also I appreciated the scene when Margaery slums it in Flea Bottom, because the Red Keep was feeling pretty claustrophobic to me, and its nice to see some dimension to King's Landing. I only have one final question left: Where is Theon? (Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak.)

Very excited for next Sunday. Let's hope that Season 3 will be the best season yet!

Django Unchained

Django Unchained (2012)

Director: Quintin Tarantino 

Cast: Jamie Foxx, Christoph Waltz, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kerri Washington, Samuel L. Jackson

2012 was a bizarre year for movies. On one hand, we had about a dozen films that were highly anticipated because they were the newest works of certain high-profile directors, such as Amour (Michael Heneke), Argo (Ben Affleck), Lincoln (Speilberg), Zero Dark Thirty (Bigelow), Life of Pi (Ang Lee), The Master (Anderson), Silver Linings Playbook (Russell)... and of course Tarantino's newest. I suppose last year was largely considered to be this great year of film. On the other hand, in my opinion, very few of these (competently made) movies lived up to their hype. All of them are strangely, almost hypnotically, underwhelming. That doesn't mean several of them aren't great-- Lincoln, The Master, and Django most certainly are-- but the rest weren't, and in any case something very subdued and morally ambiguous pervaded in all of them. 

I saw Django Unchained in theaters last fall when it first came out, and just saw it again last night. After a second viewing, I've decided it's a very peculiar movie indeed, from the pace of its narrative, its three part structure, strange closeups (Shultz pouring pints of beer), and even the wonky music accompanying certain scenes (a montage featuring Django and Shultz "training" in the cold mountainous wilderness).  At times the movie comes off cutesy (a gang of southern slave owners, including an inexplicable Jonah Hill, humorously bickering about their makeshift KKK masks); at other times, the realistic sadism and violence is stomach turning. 

Initially, I theorized that perhaps the movie can be simplified as beginning light-hearted and fun, and then delving into the horrific. The scene where we first meet Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio) as he gruesomely orchestrates a Mandingo fight in his posh quarters perhaps serves as that pivotal scene where the tone of the movie shifts. However, now I doubt this shift in tone is the case. The light-hearted, playful elements extend throughout the film, and the disturbing gruesomeness is abundant in the early portions of the film, such as Django's flashbacks of his wife Broomhilda whipped as he begs for mercy. 

The fact is that the bewildering structure and narrative of Django Unchained refuses interpretation. It's nearly impossible. There are three parts to Django. 

The first part of the movie is about Django assimilating into the business by Shultz, and a "revenge tale" is set up: these two will spend the entire film finding the Brittle Brothers. But this tale is not the central plot. After the two heroes find and kill the Brittle Brothers, the plot shifts to a second part, a second "revenge tale"; however, Django never actually says he plans to kill Candie to get his wife back. In fact, Django and Shultz's plan is to prudently purchase her from Candie by entering the estate disguised as Mandingo enthusiasts. After a second viewing, Shultz's plan comes off as a very, very bad idea. But what was Django's plan going in? Did he foresee that the only way to get his wife back would be through enacting "revenge", the demolition of Candie's entire foundation? This remains unclear.

Once on the plantation, Candie's savage slyness and cunning makes Shultz and Django seem way in over their heads. Candie is not the same plantation owner our heroes cleverly (too easily?) outwitted in the first half of the movie; even worse, Candie has a watchful and keen guard protecting Candyland, a "House Nigger" named Stephen, played by an almost unrecognizable Samuel L. Jackson. We know this will end badly for everyone. We know Django and Shultz aren't just going to walk out of Candie's stronghold without a trail of blood behind them. 

Christoph Waltz's Dr. Shultz is one of the most interestingly moral characters set to screen. In the opening scene, he throws away a handful of money at the slave trader whose leg is broken by the horse, then frees the slaves. Money is important to Shultz, but not at the sake of something so objectively immoral as the institution of slavery. He even says straight up that he "detests" slavery. Moreover, he despises Candie, and certainly deserved the Oscar for the scenes in which he must mask his disgust at Candie's sadistic acts. In the end, Shultz gives his own life (and possibly even Django's!) to watch this epitome of human depravity suffer and die. 

After Shultz's death, the movie enters it's third part, a different movie altogether. With Candie and Shultz dead, Django alone must return to the plantation not just to take his wife back, that would be too simple, but to destroy every fiber of the inhuman structure Candie represented. This includes not only Candie's sister, all his men, and his faithful servant Stephen, but also his entire plantation, an ostentatious mansion filled of horror and pain. 

If Django Unchained is a great movie, it's because it brings to mind an alternative history. How many people suffered like Broomhilda, crying in bed and praying that her husband would come to save her, and yet never being saved? How many ostentatious plantations still stand unaltered  preserved relics built up by the hands of suffering generations of African-Americans? The most horrible part is that Django's alternate history is our real history. By the movie's final explosive scene, Tarentino has given his audience everything they wanted; a moral white man who sacrificed himself for others, a relentless and triumphant hero, and a protected beautiful damsel as they literally ride off in the sunrise. But, exactly like Shultz's German fairy tale, Django Unchained is merely the stuff of fairy tales. None of it was real. There were no happy endings. And if nothing else, this painful remainder of our dark and sordid history makes Django great.

A

    

The Golden Age of Horror: An Exposition

Someone's going to their room without dinner.

After an extended hiatus, I'm back! It's been a very long time, and I hardly know where to begin. How about a list of the 10 best horror films from the last 10 years that I watched recently? In no particular order:

May (A)

The Woman (A)

The Descent (A+)

Sinister (A+)

The Pact (A)

The Exorcism if Emily Rose (A-)

Dread (A)

Absentia (B)

Silent Hill (A-, seriously, what the hell was that?)

V/H/S (B+, or an A for its brilliant low-budgetness)

*Spoilers Below!*

It really is The Golden Age of horror, as this guy put it. So Golden, in fact, that the bar has been raised ridiculously high. Awhile back I was watching so many high caliber scary movies in succession that I would become convinced that I had exhausted all the best, and then, low and behold, I would watch something else that surpassed the last. All the movies listed above are primarily responsible for me quitting the last season of The Walking Dead right after that zombie devoured Laurie and Rick had some stupid nervous breakdown. 

                                                                            Seriously, chill out dude.  It's only a zombie.

What really gets me is how many of these movies revert to fascinating and archaic supernatural themes and even fairy tales to explain their dark forces. For example, Absentia, although not great, is a sophisticated movie about an insect-troll that resides in another dimension beyond the walls of a tunnel, kidnapping people ala Billy Goats Gruff. The monster in Sinister-- which is in fact great, a pitch-perfect shockingly horrifying, scream-inducing nightmare film-- is explained as a pagan deity (!) that coerces children to murder, two horrifying concepts in one. And then there's the six (count 'em six!) demons that possess poor Jennifer Carpenter in Emily Rose. And who doesn't love a good demon, let alone six?

These days, when horror isn't revolving around other-wordly folkloric beings, it's surprising us with some truly unsettling man-made monstrosities and concepts.  Honestly, the word unsettling doesn't even begin to describe them. We have the innate fear of cannibalism and deafness in Dread, societal exclusion and sexual madness in May, male-dominated violent misogyny and psychopathy in The Woman, and a serial killer family member hiding in our basement and watching us through the walls in The Pact. These concepts aren't just brought about to spook us a little; they are so completely calculated and meticulously constructed to scare the living shit out of us by evoking our innermost terrors.  Oh yeah, and no one cares about you and no one is coming to save you, not even your family, FYI.

What a great age to be born into! Reviews forthcoming. Welcome back.

The Dark Knight Rises

The Dark Knight Rises (2012)

Director: Christopher Nolan

Cast: Christian Bale, Tom Hardy, Gary Oldman, Anne Hathaway, Michael Cain, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Marion Cotillard 

Has there ever been a blockbuster trilogy so riddled with tragedy? There was Heath Ledger's death before the release of The Dark Knight in 2008, then the movie theater shooting on the night of the premier of The Dark Knight Rises in Aurora, Colorado. In addition, a stuntman was killed during the filming of the second film. The fact that Nolan's trilogy presents some of the darkest, most villainous subject matter ever to be manifested on film only makes these tragedies more exceptional and disturbing. 

Batman Begins was a promising version of the Batman saga that neglected the fantastical world of most superhero movies in favor of a realistic interpretation. Billionaire Bruce Wayne's spiritual ascent from his anger over the murder of his parents is propagated by his mentor, Ra's al Ghul (Liam Neeson), whom he must defeat in order to save the city he strives to protect. At the end of Batman Begins, his childhood love Rachel (Katie Holmes) tells him she will be with him once he no longer needs Batman. But does Bruce need Batman more than the city needs him? The finale of the first film ends with an eerie foretelling of a new villain, the Joker, and Lieutenant Gordon (Gary Oldman) comments that the presence of Batman, a faceless vigilante, has created a new brand of criminal, one also masked and with a taste for the "theatrical". In other words, we have the irony that Batman exists to protect Gotham, yet in doing so, propels the most insidious and nefarious criminals to come out of the woodwork. 

The ending of the first installment presented a terrific set-up for The Dark Knight, a cinematic force of momentous consequences. The Dark Knight represents a world so close to ruin by a villain so terrifying and relentless, not only in his intentions and achievements, but also because he paradoxically refers to himself as "an agent of chaos". As Alfred (Michael Cain) warns Bruce in the second film, "some men can not be negotiated with." They only want to see the city burn.

Throughout The Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne is frequently in over his head. Nearly out shadowed by the Joker's maniacal plots, it becomes clear early on that in order to continue protecting Gotham, Batman must rescind any desire to be recognized for his heroism. This was the purpose of the character Harvey Dent (Aaron Erickerson), a politician and therefore a legitimate (i.e democratic) hero who upholds our society's most benevolent intentions. Dent's fall is anticipated when he claims to be Batman, thinking this would appease the deranged Joker. Maimed and ruined by the death of his fiance Rachel, Dent wears a mask as well, but it's a grotesque and vertical monstrosity-- a two-faced, hypocritical concoction-- very much unlike the meticulous creation of Batman, or the apathetically splashed on make-up of the Joker.

Batman must take the fall for Dent's failures to prevent the city from losing hope for the goodness of Gotham. The reasons are delightfully ambiguous, and perhaps, as Gordon puts it, "Because he can take it." And herein enters one of several primary themes that pervades the films; the importance of hope and the threat of its demise.

When I first heard that The Dark Knight Rises would not pick up where we left off, but begin several years after the last film ended, I was disappointed. However, I see now that in order to complete the trilogy, Nolan would have to establish a back-drop for Wayne's selfless herosim; namely, that he is essentially a lonely misanthrope keeping a watchful eye over Gotham's period of piece. All that is torn to shambles with the arrival of Bane (Tom Hardy), whose character's fortitude and motivation are as insurmountable as, let's say, scaling the walls of the pit of a prison from which no man has ever escaped.

The Dark Knight Rises is already a cinematic classic, a powerhouse of sequences and characters not easy to erase from modern memory. Anne Hathaway's Selina Kyle represents how society forces members to resort to illegal means as survival, while Joseph Gordon-Levitt's Blake serves a practical role of both bringing Batman back from seclusion and serving as the point of view of a city crumbling to ashes.  

Is there any metaphor in film more uplifting and perfect than that of Bruce Wayne emerging from the pit, after his body has been broken and his city razed? Is there any other villain so diabolical and yet shockingly sympathetic as Bane? It is hard to imagine that there will ever be another director that will create such a complex narrative, nuanced characters, and thoughtful social commentary with Batman in years to come. This is the primary reason Nolan's Batman trilogy is so important, and overtime, will help overshadow the terrible tragedies surrounding it.

Paul Thomas Anderson: An Exposition

Hi everybody! It's been awhile since I posted but I've been quite busy with my second full-length screenplay, which I have just finished last week! Congrats to me, I know.

On the subject of screenwriting, one of my favorite film writers has a new movie coming out in October, The Master. Have you seen the trailer? Here it is!

Joaquin. Philip. Paul Thomas Anderson. WWII-era. This is such a treat for me, as I didn't think the year of film could get more promising with the release of Django Unchained.

Paul Thomas Anderson is one of only several great narrative filmmakers working today.  Ask me what my favorite movie is, or which one I would chose to send in some time capsule to aliens or what have you, and I would say Boogie Nights alongside Breaking Bad, if there is room in there for a series. 

Like Breaking Bad, Boogie Nights has every necessary element required for a spot in the apex of narrative drama. It has a perfectly defined protagonist with a definite dream, Dirk, played by Mark Wahlberg, who is perfectly likable and engaging because he is innocent and child-like in his pursuits of being a star, even when he is fucking up and hitting rock bottom on his journey to self-acceptance. It has the wise seer mentor Jack (Burt Reynolds) who takes our young hero under his wing, and who represents an artist with a passion for his film and the family of benevolent outcasts he has cultivated. We have the unfortunate mother-figure, Amber (Julianne Moore) who has a large heart and a painful history,  and who's single flaw is that she has too much love to give and nowhere to place it. Then there is the cacophony of terrific characters played with keen sensitivity by our current 21st acting titans: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Don Cheadle, John C. Reilly, Alfred Molina, William H. Macy. 

We like these people because they are good people, and it is surprising to consider that they are all porn stars and some are drug addicts and the world Anderson has created is not filthy or dirty by any means, because its characters are childish and kind and love one another, and the tragedy that happens to them is tragic because we care about them. Likewise, the finale of Dirk reconciling with father-figure Jack, who immediately forgives him and welcomes him back into his home, is the kind of beauty and parable simplicity only found in the best literary works. Did I mention that the film is really about the history of film? How Jack'sprinciples regarding the making of genuine art on 35mm are compromised by the advent of digital reproduction and subsequently, the shallowness of cinema in the 80's and 90's?

Boogie Nights doesn't belong to any decade.  It doesn't belong to the 90's anymore than it belongs to the 70's. Instead, it is a universal tale set to the music of a decade notoriously rife with pain, loss, hopes, mistakes, love, and of course, forgiveness.  It's a great precursor for the films of our current century, and its boy-meets-world tale belongs to all of us.

There Will be Blood is also a majestic force of cinematic art, but for entirely different reasons. Decidedly more methodical and punctual, it is more important for solidifying the canon of Anderson's unique brand of analogy driven American historicism, a brand I am certain will continue with The Master.

So here's to The Master! May it be everything we've hoped for 2012. 

Dim the lights.